“I’m so glad you could come to our Hanukah celebration, Meg,” Lucy’s father said, holding a steaming platter inches from her nose. His bony hand, freckled with sunspots, seemed almost all knuckle. “Would you like more calamari?”
Meg looked down at the obscene amount of food already on her plate and gave her head a small shake. The platter moved on, and she reached out for her water glass. After she had gulped it down, Lucy’s mother appeared from nowhere to refill it.
“Obviously, we don’t keep kosher,” Lucy whispered, picking at her plate. She seemed almost embarrassed at the amount of food spread across the dining room table, fried and baked dishes slathered with sauces, piled high in their festive holiday platters. It was a feast, appropriate for a dozen people if most of them were ravenous linebackers.
There were only four of them at the table.
“Its hard work merging two cultures,” Lucy’s father said as he settled back in his seat. “But I think we’ve kept the best of both traditions.”
In front of Meg, between two potted poinsettias, Jewish latkes sat side by side with traditional Italian seafood dishes. In the next room, an enormous white Christmas tree stood next to a menorah, the flickering colored lights of the tree overpowering the candlelight.
“Notice the food is mostly Sicilian,” Lucy said with a smirk. Her nostrils flared as she looked over at her father. “And all the Jewish food is store-bought.”
“At local Jewish bakeries,” he said. He was either unaware of Lucy’s glare or was purposefully ignoring it. “I’m supporting my community.”
He took a sip from his wineglass. Immediately, Lucy’s mother sprang up from her seat to refill it. The wine bottle was empty, though, and he frowned as she shook the last few drops into his glass. Meg watched as the silent little woman, almost invisible in a drab printed dress and severe bun, walked over to the sideboard and back, another bottle of wine in her hands.
“Admit it, you’re a lapsed Jew,” Lucy said, pushing her plate away. “You can’t pick and choose traditions. You’re either all in or not.”
“I’m culturally Jewish,” he said, looking down at his scowling daughter. The candlelight flickered on his wire-framed glasses. “I’ll always be. However, I married a Catholic woman, and I’m appreciative of other faiths and customs as well.” He patted his wife’s hand, and she gave a curt nod. “Isn’t it wonderful to live in such a vibrant, multi-cultural community?”
When Meg had first visited Lucy’s house, she had thought she had mistakenly wandered into some odd little museum. Lucy’s father was an anthropology professor, and his house was a showplace for his interests in the lives and artifacts of various world peoples. Ornate statues from Sudan stood next to exotic paintings from Asia, carved furniture from Europe, and woven blankets from South America tribes. And the books! Meg had never seen so many books. They were piled high on every surface. Paperbacks and old worn tomes, frail with yellowed pages, had covered the dining room table before Lucy’s mother had swept them aside to cover it with a holiday cloth and the serving dishes.
“I love holidays,” her father gushed. “They are life-affirming. Especially the winter feasts. They’re a celebration of life and growth even in the dead of winter.” He ignored Lucy’s loud groan. “I like to celebrate them all. That’s why we include traditions from Diwali in our decorations and eat pomegranates on Yalda. What about you, Meg?”
Meg’s fork, hefting one lonely pea, paused in mid-air.
“I, uh, don’t like pomegranates.”
“What holiday traditions does your family have?”
“Traditions? Um, we do Christmas, I guess,” she said, thinking that the only constant every year was her mother’s inexplicable sobbing while watching “It’s a Wonderful Life.” It wasn’t a tradition, per se, but the one thing Meg could really expect from the holiday season.
“Do you incorporate any Celtic traditions or celebrate the winter solstice? I’m very intrigued by paganism,” he went on, not waiting for Meg to answer. “I visited with several covens when I traveled, back in my grad school days.”
“Here we go,” Lucy leaned over and whispered to Meg. She had warned her not to bring up her father’s grad school days, as he would jump at the excuse to drone on and on about his world travels. “When you backpacked into Sicily and stole my mother from her village?”
“She went quite willingly. It was me that was reluctant to leave. I could have died happily in that piazza. The colors, the music, the food. And of course, my beautiful Maria. My walking angel.”
“Dad,” Lucy hissed. “Please.”
“Lucy, in a country where the divorce rate is an astounding 50%, you should be pleased that your mother and I are so fond of each other.” He took his wife’s hand and raised it to his lips. She covered her mouth with her napkin and giggled like a schoolgirl.
“Not at the dinner table, please.” Her protests were ignored, so she quickly pulled away from the table, her chair giving a defiant screech.
“I’ve lost my appetite. C’mon, Meg.”
Eager to be free from the table, and the heaping plates of temptation, Meg followed.
“Wait a minute, young lady,” Lucy’s father called from the head of the table. His voice had changed. Even his posture had changed. The smile disappeared, and his face grew stern. Meg felt like she was now facing a pony-tailed sergeant, leading an armed and ready firing squad. “Let’s go over your plans.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Lucy grasped the back of her chair. Her knuckles, luckily, much smaller than her father’s, were white.
“Meg, your mother will be home tonight, correct? She’ll be supervising this sleepover?”
“Yes. I mean, yes sir.” Even Meg felt it difficult to lie under that beady stare. “She’s working right now, but yes, she should be home by the time we get there.”
“Maybe I should drive you,” he rubbed his chin, his fingers scratching the sparse goatee. “It’s dark outside.”
“It’s five o’clock,” Lucy scoffed. “We’ll be fine.”
“Do you have your pepper spray?”
“Yes,” Lucy said, crossing her arms.
“Do you have your whistle?”
Lucy yanked the silver chain from inside her shirt and waved the tiny whistle at him.
“What are three ways to incapacitate an attacker?”
“Thumb thrust into the eye sockets, kick at the kneecap,” Lucy rattled off, counting on her fingers. “Or, my personal favorite, knee him in the groin.”
“And call fire instead of help,” Her father said, his face relaxing. “Statistics say it’s more effective than yelling help.”
“Got it. Got it.” Lucy let loose a long sigh. “Can we go now?”
“I’ll pick you up at nine,” he said, returning to his plate. “You mother wants you to go to confession before mass.”
“Confession?” Lucy was aghast. “I just went last week! I haven’t done anything. What am I supposed to confess?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said and crammed a fork full of calamari into his smiling mouth.
“I thought we’d never get out of there,” Lucy said once they were outside and the door was shut tightly behind them. Meg was so relieved to be outside, she didn’t even flinch when a gust of frigid air whipped around and smacked her in the face. It was almost refreshing after hours spent in the stifling warmth and clutter of Lucy’s house.
They walked down the steps and out onto the frozen sidewalk. Meg paused to look at Lucy’s home. It was the only house on the street that had eschewed the traditional white electric décor, and the blue candles in each window cast pretty flickering shadows onto the dirty snow. It was like a black and white movie that had been colorized by someone with a fondness for neon.
“Sorry my father is such a pretentious asshole,” Lucy grumbled, dodging a slush puddle.
“He’s not so bad,” Meg said, wrapping her scarf further around her neck.
“You have a high tolerance for bullshit,” Lucy answered, trudging along. They crossed the street and rounded a corner, just in time to see the green line trolley pulling away.
“Great,” Lucy said and pulled her wooly hat further down over her ears. “Now we’ll have to wait forever for the next one.”
“Maybe we should have let your dad drive us,” Meg said, jogging in place to keep warm.
“Uh uh,” Lucy said. “What if he wanted to come into your house? Check its carbon monoxide levels? Talk to your mom? I’m sure he’d find some reason for me not to stay. And I need to see Scott tonight.”
Lucy’s father’s over-protectiveness seemed to have no limits. Whenever Meg came to visit, after Lucy had successfully cloistered them in her room, he would check on them once an hour. He’d knock first, of course, a quick brush of those enormous knuckles against the open door, before bursting in on them. When he was sure that they weren’t doing drugs, smoking, engaging in deviant sexual behavior or reading mass-market fiction, he’d leave, but would always have another excuse to check in later.
“He thinks I’m this delicate little flower that needs to be protected from all of the evils in the big bad world,” she said, sniffling. The wind howled past them, and they both shivered. “It’s just his guilty conscience.”
“Why does he have a guilty conscience?”
Meg thought Lucy’s dad was kind of pompous, and he had creepy knuckles, but she thought it might be a nice change of pace, having a parent actively concerned for your welfare. Her own mother had sped off to work that morning, in a friend’s warm SUV, and hadn’t even thought of giving Meg a ride to the bus stop.
“It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time.”
“Fine. Whatever. Last year, we had tenants, up in the second-floor apartment. One was this guy. Joe. We hung out a lot.”
The words rushed out of Lucy. She looked up and down the street, and then studied her feet, careful to avoid Meg’s eyes.
“He was older. And a little weird I guess. I liked hanging out up there. He was really into me. It was just…kind of cool to have someone that into you, you know?”
“How much older?”
“Older. Thirty maybe?” She shrugged and wiped her dripping nose. “I know what you’re thinking. It was mostly harmless, ok? Just some flirting. Pretty tame. But my parents found out, and of course, they freaked.”
“I’ll bet.” Meg figured this was an incredible underestimation. “Did this guy…did he…”
“Touch me inappropriately? Force himself on me?” Lucy laughed. “Of course not. I was into him. It was fun to…I dunno…practice on him.”
“Oh.” Meg was a bit taken aback by how blasé Lucy was being about all of this, but didn’t want to appear an unsophisticated rube. “So your parents caught you…er…practicing with Joe?”
“No. Someone told them. It was a nightmare. They threw him out, and yes, turns out he was kind of sketch. That’s why we don’t have tenants anymore. You never know what sort of creep is living in your attic apartment.”
“Are you OK?”
“Of course I’m OK.” Lucy shoved her hands in her pockets and attacked a hunk of ice with the heel of her shoe. “My parents are always trying to talk to me about Joe. Why did I hang out there so much? Did he threaten me? They are just ridiculous. You know how many times my dad has lectured me? That’s caused me more psychological damage than anything Joe did to me.”
“But you said you were into him.”
“You know what I mean, Meg.”
Meg watched her chip away at the ice and struggled to find something to say.
“I can’t take a piss without my parents hovering at the door, listening. I hate that they found out about Joe. I hate that they think of me this way.”
“They love you.”
“If they loved me, they’d leave me the hell alone. I’m fine. Nothing really happened to me. I’m not some poor Sudanese girl, stolen from her village and forced to marry some warlord. I’m not a victim. I’m not damaged goods.”
The ice was in reduced to tiny shards scattered across the sidewalk. It looked like a pile of broken glass, the shards sharp enough to break through the skin.